


to be something useful

by deathlessaphrodite



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, It's About The Cleaning Of Wounds As A Love Language, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Pre-Relationship, Set Between Episodes 92-93
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathlessaphrodite/pseuds/deathlessaphrodite
Summary: Martin was the kind of person to carry pencils around with him. Pencils, tea, plasters. Anything to help. Jon had been the kind of person to carry pens around with him, but that was more for convenience’s sake than anything else. He didn’t know if he was that kind of person anymore. Things had - well, he was a lot less organized, now, that was for certain.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 28
Kudos: 103





	to be something useful

**_“In the next world, I want to be something useful. Like a staple gun, or in love.” -_ ** **Bradley Trumpfheller, from “Speculative Realism”**

Jon hadn’t really meant to end up back in the Archives. He’d meant, honestly, to go back to Georgie’s and sleep for the rest of the day, and probably through some the night, too. But his feet had carried him down there, and now he sat at his desk in his office, not knowing why he was there or what he was supposed to be doing, feeling both under pressure and without specific guidelines. 

They’d kept it neat, at least. Maybe neater than when he’d been there, honestly, statements and notes all stacked up next to each other, soundly stapled. Most of the notes were in Martin’s very clear, penciled handwriting. They were good notes, Jon thought, as he read through them, concise and thorough. He felt his heart squeeze. _You missed him,_ he reminded himself, _you used to see him practically every day. It’s normal to miss people you see every day, when you don’t see them. That’s all._

Martin was the kind of person to carry pencils around with him. Pencils, tea, plasters. Anything to help. Jon had been the kind of person to carry pens around with him, but that was more for convenience’s sake than anything else. He didn’t know if he was that kind of person anymore. Things had - well, he was a lot less organized, now, that was for certain.

There was a knock and the door, and he snapped his head up too fast, making the room spin. 

“Hey, Jon,” Martin said. He was holding something in his hands, but Jon couldn’t focus his eyes enough to see what it was. 

“Hey,” He heard himself reply. He tried looking down at the desk, and the swaying abated a little. He wanted to curl up on the floor and not move for a while. 

“I thought I’d - well, someone needs to - are you alright?”

  
  
“Yeah, I’m - I’m fine. Just,” He looked up at Martin, who was a bit clearer now, “I’ve got a weird headache. What do you need?”

Martin looked at him for a long moment, and then put what he was holding down on the desk, “Can I look at your neck, Jon? Just to - to clean it, at least?” Jon had been looking at the bowl of hot water on his desk, trying to figure out why it was there. It still took him a minute to put two and two together. 

“Oh,” He said, and then cleared his throat, “I suppose - I suppose someone should. But it’s really not as bad as -” _As it looks,_ he was about to say, and then realised he hadn’t actually looked in a mirror for a long while.

Martin was already getting ready to help, taking things out his pockets - bandages, alcoholic wipes, a dry cloth - and putting them on the desk, next to the bowl. All lined up neatly, like the statements had been, “I should move these,” Jon said, absentmindedly, “Don’t want them to get -,” _Blood on them,_ he was about to say, and stopped himself, heart hammering. He didn’t want to think about the fact that there was blood, or the fact that it was his, “Damaged.” He said, instead. Martin hummed in response, and then took them from him, putting them in the top drawer. 

He wet the cloth, and then stopped short of Jon’s neck, realising something and letting out a quiet _oh_ , “You might want to take your jumper off. It’ll - well, it’ll get wet.” Jon did as he was told, “Alright, tip your head back?” Martin’s hand went up, seemingly on instinct, to touch him on the chin, but stopped before it did. Jon could almost feel his fingers, feather-light. He was very aware that he hadn’t shaved in a while, that even without the blood and dirt on him he still hadn’t showered in far too long, that his hair was greasy and that most of it had fallen out of the hair tie he’d put it in. God, he probably looked like hell. 

The water was warm, and Martin’s hand was very gentle, when it finally touched down on Jon’s neck. Eventually, he brought his other hand down on the other side of the wound, pressing softly with the pads of his fingers, “It doesn’t hurt too much?” That reminded him, absurdly, of the time in university when he’d broken his wrist giving Georgie a piggy-back ride, and she’d come to see him in hospital, playing the bereaved girlfriend. _Oh, Jonny, it doesn’t hurt too terribly much, does it?_

The thought made him laugh, and Martin shot him a worried look, “No, it doesn’t hurt too much. It - stings. It feels a lot better now than it did.”

“Hmm,” Martin had that crinkle between his brows that he got sometimes. Jon’s pulse had spiked, for some reason. 

Martin’s gentle hands got gentler, somehow, when they got to the other side of the wound, “It’s deeper here. Don’t want it to open again.” Jon hummed, this time, swallowing. He thought, _when was the last time someone touched me like this?_ The paramedics, after Prentiss? But they’d been wearing gloves, and Martin’s skin was on his skin. It was Martin’s hands rubbing away dried blood, Martin’s eyes scrutinizing the wound, not some stranger. 

Jon tried to take a deep breath, and Martin noticed, because… of course he did.

“You okay?” He meant it differently than he had before. 

Jon sighed, “Yeah.”

“You sure?” He turned back to the desk, ripping open the little square of alcohol wipes.

Jon looked down at the grain of the desk, trying not to feel bereft. Martin’s hands had been so _warm,_ “I’ll be alright. I mean -” _I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to think about it._ He looked up at Martin, who was looking back at him, listening, “I’ll be fine.” He tried to summon a smile, and must’ve succeeded, because Martin smiled back. _When was the last time someone listened to me like that?_ Jon thought, and then, _No - when was the last time I_ felt _listened to?_

The alcohol wipes stung, and Jon bit back a hiss. Martin sucked in a breath in sympathy and agreement. _I know it hurts,_ he seemed to be saying, _it’s alright that it does._ Jon closed his eyes, because if he didn’t he would cry, and that - alongside everything else - would be woefully unprofessional. 

“I know it’s probably not comfortable,” Martin said, tying the end of the bandage around Jon’s neck, neatly, carefully, the kind of physical inflection Jon had come to expect from him, “But you’ll only need to keep it on for the rest of the day. Maybe clean it before you go to bed? It’s been a while since I actually needed to use my First Aid training,” He gave a little self-deprecating smile, “I’m a bit rusty.”

“You bandaged my leg,” Jon heard himself say, “After Prentiss.”

“Oh,” Martin’s cheeks bloomed pink, “I did. I - I’d forgotten.” He really was very pretty. _And that’s not even inappropriate. It’s just an acknowledgment of fact._ Jon wondered what it’d be like to tell him. To say, _take me home, take me home, take care of me._ But that was a selfish thought. Martin had already wasted enough time on him. 

“Thank you, Martin,” He said, and he meant it, he really meant it, and he didn’t know how to make it clear he did, “I really - I really appreciate it.” _Touch me again,_ he wanted to say, _touch me again, I’m bereft._

“It’s alright,” Martin started collecting things, wrappers and leftover bandage, and along the way he picked up an old staple that’d fallen out of a statement, picking things up and setting them right, “I just hope you feel better. That is - that is, that you really are okay, Jon.”

“I will be,” He said, “Thank you.” Martin smiled, and opened the door, his hands full but still deft, somehow. And then it was like he’d never been there, the only evidence the bandage around Jon’s throat and the banging in his chest. 

Jon let a hand trace the bandage, for a moment, thinking about how warm and capable Martin’s hands had been - how warm and capable _Martin_ had been, had always been - and then cleared his throat, and stood. He had work to do. 

**Author's Note:**

> i am a tender bitch and i love martin blackwood can u tell 😓


End file.
